


Some Nights

by darkerstarss



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Black Widow - Freeform, Civil War Fix-It, Established Relationship, F/M, Jealous Natasha, Nat'challa, insomniac hope, jealous! natahsa, mcu - Freeform, natasha gets relationship advice from everyone, protective! t'challa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-09-28 04:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20420090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkerstarss/pseuds/darkerstarss
Summary: "You know, for a world-class spy, you are horrible at hiding your feelings."OR in which Natasha Romanoff is (not) jealous.





	Some Nights

**Author's Note:**

> request from snark noir
> 
> I was trying to think of a good team member, but the only one i could really think of was Hope. Okoye is married, and I like her relationship. Nakia is a bit cliche, and I even googled for ones that may have slipped my mind, but it just circled back to Hope Van Dyne. I hope you like it, though!!!! And I don't think Hope has insomnia, but she does in this story.
> 
> Yes, this is named for the song by fun. If you haven't heard it, listen to it. That album is the epitome of music, especially the songs We Are Young and Some Nights. It's unedited for the mostpart, but I figured I'd kept you waiting long enough. Maybe I'll go back and edit it one day.
> 
> If you have a request, feel free to send it in!

It started with the little things, as often things do. 

After the revised Sokovia Accords were signed — with a global audience this time to ensure there would be no more resistance — and the new Avengers were formed, bigger and better than ever before with a host of new members, alongside the tried-and-true that fought from the beginning. 

Among the newly enlisted was T’Challa Udaku, king of reclusive Wakanda and enhanced human known as the Black Panther. Among those that had long since been members of the team was Natasha Romanoff, former KGB and SHIELD and the most infamous Black Widow of them all. 

One would think that they might have nothing in common, no reason to spend any time together, and therefore their close proximity would include nothing special. Perhaps a short hello every now-and-then, maybe they would train with each other, but nothing besides that. 

And it began that way, with the little things. They would nod when they passed one another in the hallways of the compound, and they would occasionally spar — the king’s brute strength and agility matched blow for blow with the agent’s swiftness and skill — but nothing besides that. 

And then, after the early weeks of the new team, once they had all begun to adjust to the new routine, Natasha and T’Challa would often spend a few hours together, alone, purely by accident. He was a king, after all, struggling to adjust to the new time zone under all the stress. She rarely, if ever, slept through the night; the horrid nightmares that haunted her mind willed her not to close her eyes. In those hours they would talk — about everything and nothing. 

At first, of course, it had merely been awkward, two-sentence statements and quiet hellos to one another when they entered the kitchen in the dead of night. Then it progressed, and they made conversation over whatever books they were currently reading, or whatever funny thing a team member had done that day, sharing nervous chuckles. Still, it was just a bit of small talk. 

And then, one night, Natasha woke in her bed, her freshly trimmed hair plastered to her forehead in a cold sweat. She hated those dreams, the ones that were truly just memories, because even if she woke up before it finished, she still knew how it ended. When the deed was done and the evidence was cleaned up, there was still a spot of red on her white dress. 

Distraught, the woman hadn’t even thought that someone, specifically T’Challa, might already be in the kitchen. She didn’t bother to change out of her night clothes — a small, soft pair of shorts and a blue tank top — but slipped on a pair of socks before making her way to the kitchen, breathing a bit heavily as a few tears formed in her eyes. 

Unfortunately, when she arrived at her destination, Natasha found the Wakandan king already seated at the large, glass table, staring out the window with glazed eyes and tapping his fingers against the surface with rhythm. He was still dressed in the clothes he had been wearing earlier that day, a slightly more casual look than they were all accustomed to seeing him wear, jeans and a shirt. With his enhanced senses, the man was instantaneously alerted to her presence, turning his neck to face her in the darkness — he hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights. 

He saw the former spy, wearing a look of surprise on her face, as if the possibility of his presence had slipped her mind entirely. Wordlessly, she turned to leave, but he called out to stop her. Natashe turned around slowly, and seeing the way he gestured towards the seat next to him, made her way to sit at the table. She looked down at her hands in her lap, shutting her eyes tight in the painful silence. And then a simple question. 

“Are you alright?” 

Silence. 

“It’s never quite been that simple,” she replied, before starting from the beginning. 

After that night, they spoke more often, and more openly. T’Challa confided Natasha with his nerves about being king and the Black Panther, as well as the seemingly overwhelming duty of being an official Avenger. She spoke to him about her past, and the fears she had so long shoved down her throat. And they understood one another.

Looking back on it, it was then that she started to fall. 

They began to spar with one another daily, joking and laughing when the chance presented itself. Their late-night meetings became less spontaneous, less unplanned, and more of an expected event. When they didn’t spend nights together, whoever awoke first had a steaming cup of coffee waiting for the other. They sat next to one another in the living room and went on walks around the compound.

Three months after this strange friendship became something ordinary for the both of them, Natasha and  T’Challa were assigned a mission together: to purge the most potent branch of the  ShangHai sex trade. It was a tragic job, causing to Natasha to think more often about her childhood and forcing  T’Challa to grind his teeth when he thought of his sister. 

It scared Natasha that, while she was there, it felt a little too much like home. The restraints and closed quarters, men barking orders. The group of girls, numb to the pain but they still cry.  It was all too familiar.

After a month trapped in the hell of it all, the ex-agent playing prisoner and the king acting as a vile predator, they succeeded in gathering all the evidence needed to tip off the authorities. When the raid was finished and the weak, red-eyed women had been removed from their disgusting conditions, T’Challa left with a grand finale; approaching the handcuffed man he had witnessed shove Natasha to the ground — even if she had been submitting to it purposefully — and punched him square in the nose.

In the ride back to the compound aboard the  quinjet , Natasha changed out of the bloody, grime-covered rags she had been forced to wear and into a change of clothes  T’Challa had made sure their ride would bring for her; her favorite  pajamas . When she joined him on a small bench in the corner of the vehicle, she offered the man a small smile.

“Did they do anything to you?” he asked timidly, though he feared he already knew the answer. It was expected.

Natasha swallowed before responding. “Nothing I’m not used to.”

The words hit the king like a knife to the heart, and his eyes met her green ones in a blur of hollow pain. So, cautiously, he reached his around the woman and let his arm rest across her back, pulling the red-head a bit closer to him. Natasha didn’t fight the touch and, after a moment of hesitation, leaned closer and let her head rest on T’Challa’s shoulder lightly, eyes closing.

Tony, who had been the one to pick them up in the  quinjet and brought her change of clothes, turned around in the  drivers seat after noticing that the hum of their hushed words had fallen away, and saw the pair. And if he saw the king’s lips graze over his friend’s forehead, though she was asleep by now, well… he would never tell.

When they arrived at the compound, it was late at night, so  T’Challa carefully carried the woman to her bedroom and left her there, before collapsing into his own bed next door. He tossed and turned for a while, unable to stop thinking, and eventually sat up, reaching for his  kimoyo beads and calling his sister.

“It’s two in the morning where you are,”  Shuri informed him as soon as he hologram figure appeared in his dark room. “Why are you calling me?” Then, as if jus realizing it, her eyes widened a little. “You finished the mission?”

T’Challa nodded. “We arrived home an hour ago.”

“Are you both alright?” He nodded again, his mind thinking back to the emptiness he had seen in Natasha’s eyes before they closed. The man’s shoulders stiffened. “Does she know?”

“Know what?” her brother asked, brow furrowing.

Shuri rolled her eyes as if the question itself was ridiculous, moving her long braids over her shoulder. “That you love her.” When he didn’t answer, the young scientist let out a snort. “Thought so.”

“Mind your own business,”  T’Challa warned her.

The princess laughed and shook her head. “When  you work up the balls to run your own love life, I’ll mind my own business.”

Her brother ended the call and eventually fell into sleep. And when he woke up the next morning, later than usual, he knew that the majority of the team would already be awake, either out, training, or taking care of other matters. When he walked into the kitchen, he didn’t expect to see the familiar red-head, sipping on a mug of coffee with a full, steaming mug of it in front of the empty seat next to her. The king smiled before moving and taking his seat.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked her, and Natasha shrugged.

“As well as I can.” She paused to take another sip of her drink. “I hope you weren’t uncomfortable. You could’ve woken me up, you know.”

T’Challa let a slightly goofy grin take over his face. “I could have. I didn’t.” When he saw the  way her smile was forced upon her face — she had known shown him a fake smile in months — his heart dropped. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She knew what he meant. “One day,” Natasha sighed before taking another sip of her drink. “Just not today.”

And one day, a week later, they did talk about it. In the middle of the night, because he hadn’t gone to the kitchen, the woman came knocking on his door. The king hardly had time to open it before her crying face had been pressed against his chest, tears soaking into the cloth of his night shirt. It took a moment for her actions to process in his mind, but once they did  T’Challa wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. After a few seconds, he pulled her further into the room and closed the door behind her.

A minute or so later, she looked up at him through silent sobs, and he helped her sit down. Tears running down her face, with the man’s hands rubbing circles on her back and voice wavering, she asked him; “Can I talk about it now?” Her friend nodded and, once again, she started from the beginning.

An hour later, the two found themselves under  T’Challa’s comforter, her head laying on his chest and his fingers running through her hair. And when her mind was somewhere in the thick haze between awake and asleep, she swore the man pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

She liked it.

The next morning, when Natasha awoke, her eyes widened as her confusion wore off and she became aware of her location. She was in  T’Challa’s bed, their limbs tangled together and her red hair splayed out over the both of them. The king’s chest heaved steadily up and down, his left arm under Natasha and his other across his stomach.

Quickly gathering her bearings, Natasha crawled slowly out from under the covers, careful not to wake the man  laying next to her, and eased off of the mattress to the floor. Tiptoeing towards the door to his bedroom, the woman prayed that his enhanced senses wouldn’t pick up on her movement and wake up. When the door had closed behind her, isolating Natasha in the hallway, she let out a deep, slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, running her fingers through her hair and pressing her back to the wall.

And when she turned her head to her right, she saw a billionaire standing in the hallway, empty mug of coffee in his hand, seeming to have been on his way to the kitchen. She merely glared at him, signaling for him not to say anything. He obliged, rolling his eyes, and continued past her to the kitchen.

So, Natasha went about her usual routine, dressing for the day quickly before walking to the kitchen and preparing two cups of black coffee, setting one down at the seat on her left and opening her current book. She didn’t read, though; the woman simply stared at the words, mind unable to drift from remembering how it felt to be in  T’Challa’s arms, and the comforting smell of his bedsheets that was so similar to the scent about his skin.

That was when Natasha realized she might have fallen in love with the man.

And it terrified her.

Still, when the king entered the kitchen that morning, she gave him the usual smile and they went about their normal conversation. Though she several times found her eyes falling across his lips as he spoke, or leaning a bit to close to the touch when his elbow bumped her side on accident. Natasha would like to claim she’d handled the fall with poise, but that would be a lie.

That same afternoon, two new residents moved into the compound: Ant Man and the Wasp, casually called Scott Lang and Hope Van Dyne. Things didn’t change much right away, or at all, really, but it was only four days after the move that Natasha walked into the kitchen at night to find not one, but two figures seated at the table. Hope and  T’Challa .

The pair was sharing a hushed laugh over something one of them had said, and it was the first time Natasha felt the compression in her lungs, and the first time she bit down her lip hard enough to taste metal. The first time she told herself that she was not jealous. Even if, just maybe, she was.

She walked into the kitchen and took her normal seat next to  T’Challa as their laughter faded, not bothering to ask what they found so funny, but instead fulfilling her curiosity. “Trouble sleeping?” she asked the brunette, and though she tried to act casual, even she could hear the sharp edge on her voice, mentally cursing herself for going soft.

“Insomnia,” Hope informed her, seeming not to pick up on — or, more likely, not care about — the bitter tone the ex-agent carried. “I ran out of eszopiclone a week ago, and haven’t found the time to get the prescription filled again.”

Natasha merely nodded, a faint, falsified smile dancing on her lips. “Oh.” It’s not as though she’s mad at the woman. After all, the kitchen was a communal area; anyone could be there at  anytime . But those late-at-night conversations and tired smiles were things she had shared with only T’Challa. And slowly, over the course of a week or so, when Hope began to make an appearance nearly every night, Natasha grew more and more bitter towards her presence.

No. Natasha Romanoff is not jealous. 

The most infamous Black Widow of them all doesn’t get jealous. It simply doesn’t happen. 

But then, if not jealousy, what is this strange way her stomach tightens? Why does her face flush every time she sees them together? Why does she subconsciously squeeze her fists when she hears them laugh together? Why does she feel the need to leave the room every time one of them enters? 

Surely, there’s no possibility on any earth that it could be jealousy. 

But each time she sees her — Hope Van Dyne — Natasha’s chest tightens a little more, and she bites down on her lip a little harder. Still, she told herself, she was not jealous. After all, there was nothing to be jealous about. 

But she was. 

Because Hope was beautiful; all perky smiles, sarcastic eye-rolls, and perfect ponytails — not a scar to mar her appearance. At the time of her birth, her family had been nearly on top of the technological world, second only to the Starks. She knew enough about science to hold a steady conversation with Bruce, and was skilled enough in combat to go hand-to-hand with even Natasha; in her suit, she could hold her own against any enhanced member of the team.

And Natasha couldn’t get the woman out of her mind. So, that Friday, designated Avengers Family Movie night, she refused her usual spot next to  T’Challa on the sofa, and instead traded places with Tony, who offered her a strange, albeit apologetic, look. Damn that man, she thought, and his genius intellect. Hope took the place at the king’s side instead, Scott on her opposite side.

And, though the Incredibles 2 played on the television, Natasha stared blankly at the empty  wallspace next to the television, eyes glazed over as she fought hard not to look at the two of them. But perhaps she shouldn’t have fought so hard against that urge, because maybe if she had turned her head and looked, she would’ve seen that  T’Challa wasn’t paying attention to the film either.

Rather, he watched her. He examined the face that could no longer hide much of anything from him, and saw the stone-cold look on her skin. The tearful emptiness in her eyes. And he wondered how she had gotten that way. The king made plans to ask her that night, in the kitchen. 

But Natasha never went to the kitchen that night. She stood abruptly and walked back to her bedroom less than halfway through the film, not noticing that both  T’Challa and Tony  follwed her with their eyes as she did so. And at midnight that night, after hours of tossing and turning in her bed, she put on her socks and walked down the hallway on her way to their usual meeting spot, but paused when she heard her name. 

“I suppose Natasha’s not coming out tonight,” Hope hummed, and the spy’s breath hitched in her throat. 

T’Challa nodded. “She did seem a bit out of it during the movie. Perhaps she doesn’t feel well.” There was a bit of hesitation in his voice, and before they could notice her standing in the doorway, the red-haired woman fled to her room, shutting the door behind her and standing against it, staring at the wall and thinking over everything. 

She stayed in her bedroom for most of the next day, only emerging to grab a cup of coffee and a package of strawberry yogurt, giving T’Challa, Hope and the team a curt hello on her way out of the kitchen. She didn’t eat lunch. At around two in the afternoon, there was a knock on her door, and Natasha opened it to find Hope and T’Challa standing outside of her room in exercise clothing. 

“We were wondering if you wanted to come spar with us,” Hope told her after a few seconds of the red-head's blank staring. 

Natasha swallowed and shook her head, not noticing the forlorn look on T’Challa’s face. “I don’t feel well,” she explained shortly. “Maybe tomorrow.” Before another word could be said, she shut and locked the door, hastily walking away from it and to the other side of the room, to the window, and watched Steve run laps around the compound. 

Things continued in this way for nearly three weeks, though Natasha did leave her room after  two days of isolation . Hope and  T’Challa would invite her to do something, and she would politely decline. After all, they didn’t need her. She was merely a third wheel, and it’s hard to be a third wheel for someone that you love. Still, she told herself that she wasn’t jealous.

Even when, eventually, she felt the need to make a quick exit any time  T’Challa or Hope entered a room she was in, even if there were others present with them, the red-haired woman continued to tell herself that she couldn’t possibly be jealous. There was just simply nothing to be jealous about, she repeated in her mind.

After all, no matter how much she loved him,  T’Challa didn’t love her — at least in that respect. He wanted Hope. And that hurt.

For years, Natasha thought she had been through the worst of it. It’s all downhill from here, she had told herself the day the revised accords were signed. She was wrong back then, though. The worst thing was loving someone and knowing they don’t love you back. Knowing they love someone else, and that you never had a chance. 

So, to ease the pain, Natasha moves on. Or, at least, she tries to. At team meals, she sits on the opposite side of the table, avoiding conversation with Hope and  T’Challa as much as possible. She simply stares down at her plate, pushing the food around and blocking out her surroundings. She didn’t spar with anyone, instead opting to go to town on a punching bag and dummy in the secondary training room. 

She hoped that no one caught on to her strange alteration in behavior; after all, she was a spy. She was practically committing murder at the age of ten, after all, without getting caught. And if even  T’Challa hadn’t seemed to take mind of it, Natasha figured she was in the clear to continue avoiding him at all costs.

So, it was an even bigger surprise when she walked into the secondary gym one morning, almost two weeks since she had said a mere word to T’Challa, to find Tony Stark, leaning against the cubbies with his arms crossed. 

Rolling her eyes, the red-head walked towards him. “What are you doing here, Tony.” She dropped her small, black duffel on the ground at her feet. 

“Last time I checked, I own this building,” he retorted sarcastically, watching as she removed her shoes and placed them in a cubby. The billionaire didn’t miss the way her nostrils flared in slight amusement as she unzipped her jacket, revealing the slim-fitting blue shirt underneath. “Actually, I’m staging an intervention.” 

Curious, the red-haired woman continued inquiring as she leaned down to unzip her bag, pulling out the wrap for her hands. “For who?” 

“You.” 

It was the last answer she ever would’ve expected, and Natasha jerked her head up so fast it took a moment for her eyesight to focus. “What?” 

“You heard me.” He uncrossed his arms and moved to sit on the wooden bench next to the cubbies, gesturing for the woman to sit next to him. Slowly, shoulders rigid, she sat with him. “You know, for a world-class spy, you are horrible at hiding your feelings.” 

Her breath caught in her throat. “I don’t... know what you’re talking about.” 

“Really?” Tony raised an eyebrow at her. “Because you’ve been working awfully hard to avoid  T’Challa lately. Any particular reason why?” 

Natasha swallowed. “No?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I’m not a child, Stark,” the redhead scoffed. “I don’t need your ‘intervention.’”

The billionaire let out a heavy sigh, moving his arm so his elbow touched hers. “So,” his tone softened greatly. “we’re not going to talk about the morning I saw you sneaking out of his room?”

“Nothing happened,” the woman told him breathily, looking down at her feet. “We just... we slept together is all.”

“Oh, is that all?” Tony asked, a bit of humor returning to his voice.

Natasha bumped her elbow against his, a strained chuckled escaping her lips. “Not like that, Stark. Just,” her voice caught in her throat. “he’s helped me through a lot, you know?” Slowly, the billionaire nodded. He had known the woman the longest out of all of them, with the exception of Barton, and though they didn’t often confide in one another, they were always willing to. “And even if I wanted to feel  anything — did feel anything — I would never tell him, because... he’s happy with her.”

Suddenly, her friend broke into a bout of sudden laughter, nearly doubling over on the bench as the ex-agent watched on in confusion. When he finally slowed down a minute or so later, Natasha narrowed her eyes in his direction.

“What’s so funny?”

Instead of answering her, the billionaire simply asked; “Happy with who?”

“Hope,” the red-haired woman answered, as if it should’ve been obvious; to her, it was.

Tony’s brow creased. “Hope Van Dyne?” Natasha nodded. “The Wasp?” She nodded again. “As in my mortal-enemy-by-blood-but-kind-of-my-friend, Hope?” Confused, the woman nodded yet again. “Tasha, Hope and T’Challa aren’t together.”

“What?” her voice faltered, face falling. “But, I thought...” She trailed off.

“I’m pretty sure she and Lang are engaged.”

Now this, this was news to Natasha. “What?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why... how come she spends more time with  T’Challa than with Scott?”

Tony’s face twisted. “She really doesn’t.”

_ The first night Hope had joined them in the kitchen, before Natasha entered the room. _

_ “Scott’s got a nine-year-old, so his bedtime is a strict ten o’clock,” Hope chuckled, and  _ _ T’Challa _ _ laughed with her. _

_ The night they watched the Incredibles together, when Natasha took the seat that Hope and Scott had shared the previous Friday, so the pair took the vacancy next to the Black Panther, hands entwined and Hope’s head resting on her fiancé’s shoulder. There was a simple ring on her finger. _

_ The next afternoon, when Natasha shut the door in the face of Hope and T’Challa, denying their offer to train together. _

_ T’Challa _ _ let out a heavy sigh, and Hope gave a sympathetic shrug. “Scott should be changed by now, maybe we can spar three ways?” _

_ At dinner, while Natasha restlessly pushed around her mashed potatoes, staring down at her plate and tuning out the conversation. _

_ “So, when’s the wedding?” Wanda asked in a somewhat excited tone. She had never been to one before. _

_ Moving his hand over Hope’s on the table, Scott smiled. “We were thinking next summer, so we can have you all, Cassie, Maggie and Paxton, Hope’s parents, and a few of our friends from San Francisco come.” _

“You’re kidding  me right?” Tony asked through a laugh, though he tried to contain it, once she had briefly summarized her notions. Continuing on, he stood and walked over to the punching bag, nudging it a little and  watching it swing. “Aren’t you supposed to be the best spy on this side of the universe? It’s about as clear as f* cking day that you and that king are head over heels for each other.”

Natasha glared at him. “We’re not—”

“You are.” The billionaire held out his hands to steady the bag of sand, holding it still. “Although, I hate the break it to you Tasha, you kind of broke his heart.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.”

Looking back on it, maybe she did. Perhaps she hadn’t imagined the hurt look on  T’Challa’s face each time he would sit next to her on the couch and, subsequently, she would stand and exit the room. Maybe the ginger kiss he’s planted on her forehead the night she’d cried in his arms hadn’t been a figment of her dreams. If she hadn’t been so quick to shut the door in his face, maybe he would’ve tried harder to convince her to spend time with him. If she hadn’t been so adamant to block him out, maybe he would’ve found his way further into her cold heart.

Chagrinned, Natasha looked down at the ground, letting out a heavy breath. “Maybe I did.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” her friend sighed, taking his seat next to her again. When he noticed that the woman didn’t move, he nudged her with his shoulder, causing her to lose balance for a moment. 

“What?”

“Well, you’re not just going to sit there, are you?”

“What else would you have me do?” Natasha defended.

The man simply rolled his eyes. “What did you think the purpose of this intervention was?” He didn’t give her time to respond before looking up to the ceiling. “Fri, where’s the black cat now?”

“In his room, boss,” the Irish automated voice informed them. “Shall I call King  T’Challa down to you?”

Tony waved her away. “No thanks, that’s all I need.” He turned his head back to Natasha, who still hadn’t moved. “What are you waiting for, a sign, woman? Go.” Shaking her head in exasperation, Natasha stood and walked out of the room, though the billionaire noticed that her steps were quick. When she was out of earshot, he leaned back against the wall with a smile. “What would she do without me, Fri?”

“Probably a lot less disaster-control.”

As Natasha hurried through the compound, to the third floor where he boarding was, her mind raced, heart beating quickly. When she got to his doorway, though, she stopped. And she stood there for a moment, frozen, staring at the door and trying to work up enough courage to knock on it, or do anything really.

Finally, she gathered herself, took a deep breath, and let three raps of her knuckles pound against the wood. And she waited, and waited. And just when her heart was beginning to sink to her stomach, the door opened. Her heart beat faster when she saw the way  T’Challa’s face lifted ever-so-slightly in surprise. In confusion. “Natasha?” he questioned, wondering for a moment if he was dreaming. After all, she was hardly willing to give him the time of day recently. “What are you doing here?”

The red-haired woman let out a deep breath. “I’m... theorizing.” She took a step closer to him and, because he was several inches taller than her, put her hands around his neck to pull him slightly downwards.

Moving up to the tip of her toes, Natasha planted her lips against his, in what she now realized to be a long-overdue kiss. When his surprise wore off,  T’Challa moved his hands down to her waist, accepting the gesture and returning it with equal enthusiasm. 

After a few seconds, they pulled away, and Natasha kept her hands clasped around his neck, pulling herself closer to his chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“Being an idiot.”

The king let out a small laugh, resting his scruffy chin on her head. “You were, weren’t you?”

“Shut up,” the woman laughed into his shirt, a few tears escaping her eyes. She looked up a few seconds later, eyes meeting his. “I think I might be in love with you.”

She took in a sharp breath as she awaited his response, cracking a smile and stepping on his toes a bit when he joked; “It took you long enough.” Pulling her closer,  T’Challa leaned down to her ear. “I think I love you back.”

And nine months later, the pair danced under the dim lights at the reception of Hope and Scott’s wedding. Natasha wore a deep blue dress, her long red hair braided over her shoulder.  T’Challa wore his formal suit, rolling his eyes when his sister shot him a laughing thumbs up from their table.

“I love you,” he told the red-head through the music as they moved.

She allowed her head to rest on his chest, their hands still clasped together, as a smile tugged on her lips. “Love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this isn't what you wanted! I really couldn't picture Natasha as much of one for sabotage. Revenge, yes; but not so much sabotage. She truly cares for T'Challa, so she wouldn't want to do anything to hurt him either. It's more sort of a "beautiful ignorance" type story.
> 
> If any of you have a request, feel free to send it in! I'll try my best to write it!


End file.
